


Tomorrow Never Came

by AlohaSoleil



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Coco Locos' Angst-Off 20118, F/M, Shooting, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 08:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16059227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlohaSoleil/pseuds/AlohaSoleil
Summary: "If you can bear to stay away from your familia for an extra week, then one more night won't hurt!"He never thought she would kick him out when they were first married. But then again, he never imagined he would be hiding in a closet recording his last message as he waited for Death to claim his soul.





	Tomorrow Never Came

**Author's Note:**

> Modern!AU 
> 
> Prompt: "Please."

“Get over it, amigo.”

_‘Hola, en este momento no puedo--’_

“I can’t just ‘get over it,’ Ernesto!” Hector retorted, carelessly sliding his phone into his back pocket. He slung his signature guitar off his shoulder and carefully lowered it into its case, deliberately avoiding his best friend’s displeased face. The deafening beat of music blasting throughout the club pounded his sensitive ears, even in the undersized dressing room. “She’s never done _this_ before.”

“There’s always a first time for everything.”

“I never wanted there to be a first time in the first place!”

“You’re going to be fine, Héctor!” Ernesto rubbed his palm against his temple. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Can’t you support me here?”

“Fine. Just apologize and move on.”

“Her phone’s off.” Héctor grabbed a fistful of his hair and squeezed his eyes shut at the emotions threatening to burst from within. His conversation with Imelda hours ago hadn’t gone the way he anticipated…at all. The words she voiced to him replayed in his head with a thousand ‘what-if’ scenarios swimming through his mushed brain. How was he going to fix this? An anguished sigh escaped from his lips as he looked to the heavens. “Why can’t I be a better husband?”

* * *

_“You were supposed to be home one week ago!” Imelda hissed._

_“I tried--”_

_“You tried to come home on time?” She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “You say that every time you go on tour with Ernesto and not once have you made it home when you were supposed to.”_

_“I know and I’m sorry.” H_ _é_ _ctor reached out to hold her, comfort her, and prove his words. But she stepped away, far from his grasp and hard as steel—so close, yet so far. Her fiery gaze always struck deep in his heart and awakened a part of him that he never knew existed until God blessed him with her presence. But in this moment, her eyes were not raging with fire._

_They were sharp and cold as ice._

_“It doesn’t seem like you are.”_

_“I only took on more shows so we could have more money for Coco’s birthday,” he explained, slowly moving closer to his wife. Thankfully, she didn’t move away from his advance. “This is my last tour, and tonight I thought--”_

_“I don’t want you here tonight.”_

_“_ _¿_ _Q-qu_ _é_ _?”_ _“You are not welcome here tonight,” she elucidated icily. H_ _é_ _ctor felt his heart freeze at his wife’s statement. “I don’t want to see your face until tomorrow. Stay with Ernesto or wherever it is you please! If you can bear to stay away from your familia for an extra week, then one more night won’t hurt!”_  

_“Imelda…”_

_“Go.” She turned away from him. “Now.”_

_“Can’t I see Coco?” he asked, voice broken and small. A small bubble of hope kept his head up at the idea of seeing his beloved princesa after two full months. His baby girl. No matter how many years she would be blessed with since he first held her on that autumn night, Coco would always be his little girl; his baby. Nothing in the world could divide the bond they shared._

_“No.”_

_“Por favor, Imelda,” he pleaded gently. “It’s been two months since I’ve seen her.” Her hand shooting up in his face immediately silenced him._

_“Tomorrow,” she asserted. “I’d rather see her happy than sad her Pap_ _á_ _is home and not staying the night.”_

_“But--”_

_“ **Tomorrow** , Héctor."_

* * *

“ _Please_ get yourself together, Héctor!” Ernesto exclaimed, picking up a comb and smoothing loose hairs beneath waxed strands. “I can’t handle you moping around because your wife kicked you out for one night and you giving the worst performance.”

“I only did this for Coco.” He heard Ernesto grumbling under his breath, eyes rolling to the back of his head. Recently, he noticed that his charismatic partner was more and more expressive in his annoyance whenever he brought up his growing angel; a tiny seed of confusion growing as he continued to observe this unusual pattern. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“I need a drink,” he muttered, eyeing himself meticulously in the face of his phone. His hand smoothed the side of his temple a final time and he looked over at Héctor. His shoulders gently slumped at the sight of his lanky and goofy friend. “Do you want one too?”

Héctor shook his head.

“No tequila?”

Shake.

“A shot?”

Another shake.

“Not even a margarita?”

“I just want to be alone for a bit, Nesto.” He grabbed his phone again and plopped carelessly into a chair, head glancing down as his thumb intuitively drummed against the screen.

“Lo que sea.” Ernesto shrugged, his thick body treading out of the small dressing room. “Text me if you want something!”

Héctor glanced at his phone and sighed. No need to text Ernesto when it was already down to 15%. ‘ _I should have charged it all the way before we got here instead of at 50.’_ Without hesitation, his fingers pulled up the chain of messages he shared with a powerful and passionate woman. He had already sent a few apologies and several phone calls before she turned her phone off completely 3 hours and 48 minutes ago. Their recent conversations hadn’t been exceedingly special—his delay being the likely culprit.

Scrolling through messages did nothing to lighten his mood—it heightened his misery and chipped away at his self-esteem. And besides, reading her voice wasn’t enough. ‘ _I’d rather see her beautiful face_ ,’ he mused. His fingers swiped to bring up his gallery filled with captured moments and smiles of his girls. A wistful smile grew on his face as he swiped past shots of Coco’s goofy faces, candids of Imelda, and both his girls. He paused on a photo of Imelda looking down at a sleeping newborn Coco in her arms—a tender motherly smile that fit her so perfectly.  

“I’ll see you tomorrow, mis amores,” he whispered to the photo.

Suddenly, a quick-fire succession of gunshots cut through the music-filled atmosphere; fear, horror, and panic quickly destroyed and replaced the layers of a careless, fun, and entertaining environment. Héctor stood in place paralyzed with fear and shock rolling throughout his entire body. He could hear a cluster of people huddling together outside the door and moving closer to the dressing room for their safety. ‘ _You have to get out of here!_ ’ A part of his brain screamed at him. ‘ _Imelda and Coco need you!_ ’  

Time and space slowed down for what felt like an eternity until his senses kicked in again. Héctor quickly picked up his guitar case, brandished with his name across the worn surface, and held it against his chest to use as a shield. He pushed the door and a sea of people poured into the dressing room, seeking temporary refuge from the gunfire. Gritting his teeth and tightening his grip, Héctor resisted against the powerful current of bodies as he tried to trudge his way out. With this many people, it should be manageable to slip past a guy with a gun.

His eyes bulged once he made it out to the main floor—there wasn’t just one shooter. There were five—shooting in all directions—fuck! And they didn’t have handguns. They had machine guns. A couple of them stood on the bar and released pure wrath and no mercy as bullets pierced through bodies. Héctor’s heart sunk into his stomach at the sight of death surrounding him—the visuals, scents, screaming—it was too much. All he had was his guitar as a shield, but that wouldn’t exactly stop a bullet if it were shot at him!

‘ _Mierda, mierda, **mierda, mierda**!_ ’ It was too late to go back and wait in a now-crowded dressing room. Héctor spotted the familiar shape of his best friend huddling close to another individual, hastily moving towards the exit. “Ernesto!” He hollered as loudly as possible against the chaotic ruckus of gunshots, screams, and thunderous music. “ERNESTO!!!” He tried again, and the man whipped his head in the direction of his name. Héctor flailed his gangly arm wildly and Ernesto caught sight of it. ‘ _Ay_ _ú_ _dame,_ ’ his eyes begged as a stronger wave of body heat pushed him farther back from the exit.

A flicker of realization flashed in Ernesto’s eyes and disappeared a moment later, replaced with an empty disconnect. He shook his head slightly and turned away to follow the flow of people trying to escape. His solid frame aggressively shoved against other frantic club-goers, and eventually it disappeared amongst the flood of bodies. He never looked back.

‘ _Why-why isn’t he--?_ ’ He was tempted to holler again, but a firing range near his section of the club cut his thought process short. He hoisted his guitar to protect his head and torso from any oncoming bullets. His eyes searched for a safe space, and he quickly remembered a small closet near the bar large enough to fit his frame—but he needed to move fast. ‘ _Move, idiota!_ ’ he screamed at his frozen limbs. ‘ _You either die now or later!_ ’

With the energy of a gazelle, Héctor used his thin frame and soaring height to his advantage by veering around people to dash towards a safe zone. Although there’s not a single bad bone in his body, this was a rare occasion he “lashed” out to get what he wanted; Héctor bumped his guitar case into anyone who attempted to slow him down. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he sped past others, hips and sides bumping into sharp corners or edges, yet his mind threw away any concept of pain. It didn’t matter if he ended up with baseball-sized bruises on his hips, he just wanted to go home! Before he could do that, he needed to get to that closet.

Rounding the corner and almost slipping on his face from his momentum, Héctor searched for the black door hidden well from sight. The only reason he was good at finding that goddamn door was because he and Imelda had once used it for a much-needed, hardcore grinding session on one of their date nights _years_ ago. He extended his hand out and felt against the grainy wall, searching until he felt a large and aged dent—the one Imelda imprinted on the door with her boot. Héctor released a sigh of relief when he found the closet unlocked and empty, and his entire frame slipped inside without hesitation.

It was pitch black, but he knew he couldn’t turn the light on. If he did that, he might as well have had an LED sign pointing at the door saying, “Aquí!” He locked the door, and pulled his phone from his back pocket to illuminate a small bite of the shadows. There was enough room for him to walk a few steps in, his body sat further into the blackness until he felt far away enough from the door. He placed the guitar case in front of him as a last-minute shield and to prevent any of his phone’s light to escape his hiding spot.

His deep and hard breaths echoed within the small chamber, but the alarming sets of gunfire and screams continued to seep through the walls, taunting him. He lowered the brightness on his phone to its lowest as his fingers tapped across the screen with rapid-fire movement. His thumb pressed the “send” button to his final message for a contact known as “el amor de mi vida <3”

As he sat alone in the darkness, fear quickly filled his entire being and he could feel all of his lean muscles tightening under pressure. Reality settled bitterly in his mind as he turned over what was happening tonight and where he might be in the next hour—if he was lucky. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he whispered into the shadows.

He was supposed to be home a week ago—embracing Imelda and Coco in his arms. He would look at all of Coco’s new drawings while Imelda cooked dinner. If she wasn’t looking, Héctor would walk up from behind his small wife and slip his arms lovingly around her waist, his face nuzzled safely in between her shoulder. She would try and swat him away, but he’d fight for his right to hold his wife and massage gentle circles into the grooves of her curvy hips. Coco would run up to them and try to encircle her small squishy arms around their sides and everything would be complete. His perfect little familia. He had been a part of creating it; right now, he was also the one who destroying it.

His heart wrenched at the possibility of not creating more with his girls. He vowed to grow old with his wife and to come home to his daughter. What a failure. He was an incompetent husband and father who couldn’t keep his promises. ‘ _If I die tonight, I deserve this._ ’ Fear made its presence quickly; however, his emotions drove him to the brink of crumbling instantaneously. Fresh, hot tears rolled down his young face as he awaited for Death to claim him. Alone. Cold. Unwanted. The perfect scenario for a worthless, stupid, and inept musician like him.

A thought entered his dense mind, and he swiftly pulled up her contact and pressed the call button. Maybe she wasn’t angry at him since the night pushed past 1 a.m. Imelda might have an order she was waiting on and would need her phone on. His heart raced with anticipation and hope that she changed her mind. This was his last chance to apologize and tell her how much he loved her. He wiped away his tears and tried to suppress the breakdown threatening to burst further.

“ _Please_ ,” he begged with a shaky voice. The echoes of gunshots, chaos, and screams resonated in the distance; a heavy feeling of fear sank in his stomach as a succession of footsteps rambled past the closet. A stronger burning sensation rose in the back of his eyes signaled another oncoming gush of warm tears. “Pick up, mi amor.”

“ _Hola, en este…_ ”

**Low battery**

**10% battery remaining**

“No, no…” His fingers moved across the dim screen, frantically trying to close the annoying box. “Imelda, please…”

He shouldn’t have hoped. He shouldn’t have thought that she might have turned on her phone for some miraculous reason. She already made herself very clear. ‘You are not welcome here tonight.’ The dam broke again with droplets of salty water tumbling without restraint as he continued to hold onto her anger.  

_“…y te devuelvo la llamada en cuanto pueda_.”

But even if she didn’t want to speak to him, this was his last chance.

_Beep_.

* * *

 A deadly shooting took place this morning at 12:42 a.m. inside Club Chicharrón, a popular nightclub near the small town of Santa Cecilia. Approximately 121 injured and about 50 dead as of right now. Police suspect the attack is related to a drug war between several local gangs…”

“Idiotas,” Imelda mumbled at the featured highlight on the Saturday morning news. She warmed her hands with the small lavender mug Coco painted for her last year. The mug was full with hot water and lemon slices and a touch of honey for sweetness. She took a brief sip of the blend as another mild wave of nausea stirred again; it settled as she felt warmth spread inside her and nestled into the pit of her stomach. A weary sigh escaped her lips—she was going to have to get used to this feeling for a while.

At 7:30 a.m., Coco was usually awake at this hour with her eyes glued to the T.V. watching morning cartoons. Instead, she was still snoozing in the bundles of lavender sheets. ‘ _She’s probably a little more tired today.’_ She placed the warm mug on the kitchen counter and retreated to her bedroom to freshen up.

She reached for her phone on the nightstand and turned it on. As it started up, Imelda brushed out her bedhead tangles she had twisted during the night. She already knew she had several missed calls and text messages from a certain idiota husband of hers. A low growl rumbled from her throat as the brush got stuck on a big knot. _‘I hope he learned his lesson not to come home late this time.’_

Her refusal to let him sleep at home was her last resort to teach him a lesson for upsetting her and Coco. There was nothing malicious in her message—or, none that she intended—it’s not like she had full control of the mood swings. Once he came home, she would talk to him regarding the tours and convince him to stay home for good. Then they’d spend the day with Coco, and she would give him the entire night. They would be a complete family again. She would forgive him. No matter how annoying he was, she still loved him with all her heart. He just needed to know how frustrating it was for her to be dealing with problems he left behind when he gallivanted on tours.

The phone vibrated against the drawer, calling for her attention when it continued to buzz with the amount of notifications popping up. Her middle finger carefully tapped the password, revealing a background photo of Héctor, Coco, and she. When she pulled the phone closer to her face, she raised a perfectly arched brow. Just as she predicted, there were eight missed calls and 25 texts. ’ _24 out of 25 are probably from H_ _é_ _ctor._ ’ Imelda scrolled past apologies and questions about Coco and when she wanted him home. She almost locked the screen, until her eyes read over the last texts from midnight.

_shooting_

_club chicharrón_

_Tell Coco I love her so much_

_Te amo mucho mi amor_

Her eyes widened at the first two lines and she bolted back to capture the story on T.V. Live footage of police officers surrounding the club played out, and Imelda scrutinized every visual detail until she confirmed the name of the club. The camera panned to the front of the club, and it was spelled out as clear as a warm, sunny day— _Club Chicharrón_.

Anger rose to her cheeks and she clutched the phone tightly. He was going to have it! She quickly dialed his number and furiously pressed the phone against her ear.

“You better answer, idiota,” she snarled in a low voice.  

“Hola, en este momento no puedo…”

“Agghhhh!

“…en cuanto pueda.”

“Héctor Rivera, you better have a good excuse why you’re not home with your familia this instant. Stop joking, this isn’t funny!” She released an annoyed huff and manically combed through the notifications on her phone. The voicemail icon showed four messages, all of them were from Héctor, no doubt; the last one was sent at 1:04 A.M. ‘ _Let’s see what this tonto has to say._ ’

“ _I don’t have much time, mi amor._ ” The crack in his voice softened Imelda and told her he was crying. She immediately heard the fear woven in his voice and her anger began to crumble. He muffled a sniffle and a mild burn of salt water started to prickle Imelda’s eyes. _“I needed to call and tell you…te amo mucho y para siempre, Imelda._ _Te amo con toda mi alma. Eres el amor de mi vida._ _I’m sorry you fell in love with an idiota like me_. _I’m sorry I am such a failure._ ”

“You’re not a failure,” Imelda whispered back.

“ _And Coco, te quiero mucho, mija. Please teach Mamá our secret song so she can also remember me, okay? I--_ ”

Imelda jumped in surprise at the sudden bang and violent slamming on a door; her ears picked up subtle footsteps through the speaker.

“ _Please don’t kill me_ ,” she heard him beg. Her eyes widened at the realization of what her husband was facing. The desperation and fear in his voice only made the lump in her throat bigger and more difficult to swallow as she listened to the voicemail. “ _I-I have a wife and a little girl. She’s only six, por favor. My girls nee--_ ”

His voice was cut off by a chain of gunshots and the agonizing screams of Héctor’s suffering. Hot tears cascaded down Imelda’s face as she listened to his low moans of pain and his lungs wheezing for air. His face must have been near the phone since it also caught small whimpers pouring out.

“ _Make sure he’s dead._ ”  

Imelda’s blood ran cold at that statement, and for a moment, she doubted that the man would have fired again. But another round of bullets blasted through the speakers, and this time, she didn’t hold back the tears pouring from her red eyes. Her hand shook as she covered her mouth in absolute horror of what had unfolded.

“ _I’m surprised he has a wife,_ ” one voice scoffed.

“ _I don’t know any mujer who would marry his ugly face_ ,” another voice mocked.

“ _Well, she won’t have to see su cara fea anymore!_ ”

“ _S_ _í_ _, and to think, he had a little girl? Ack! They can forget him--_ ”

An abrupt silence cut off that last statement, leaving Imelda with an abysmal feeling swelling in her abdomen. ‘ _No, no, no, no, no…’_ He wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. He was coming home today, not lying on the floor drenched in his own blood. Her husband was going to see their daughter for the first time in two months and sing to her until the stars sprinkled the sky. Héctor Rivera was going to share their bed, prove how much he missed her, and hold her securely in his arms—safe from the world. Today she was going to press his hand against her abdomen and reveal that he was going to be a papá once more.

A wave of nausea curled in her belly and her slender fingers searched for his number and pressed the green icon. 

“Hola, en este momento no puedo--”

“ _Please_ , Héctor,” she sobbed quietly. “Come home, mi amor.”

 “Mamá?” A sleepy voice called from behind her. “When is Papá coming home?”


End file.
